


One Tin Soldier

by ItsAlwaysBloodMagic



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brainwashing, Endgame, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Torture, MT Lore, MT!Prompto, Spoilers, Stockholm Syndrome, World of Ruin, Zegnautus Keep, hints of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-03-11 14:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13526505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsAlwaysBloodMagic/pseuds/ItsAlwaysBloodMagic
Summary: "Prompto.  We have to go."Prompto’s face hardens.  His jaw sets.  He meets Noctis’ eyes now, for real, and he’s not looking away.  "No," he says.  It’s almost a whisper.  Then, before Noctis can open his mouth to protest, he says it again, louder."No."In Zegnautus Keep, Prompto makes a decision.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I referenced these posts by [@dizzymoogle](https://dizzymoogle.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr pretty heavily for canon compliance in this fic: [FFXV Magitek Troopers](https://dizzymoogle.tumblr.com/post/170742570984/ffxv-magitek-troopers), [MT Barcodes](https://dizzymoogle.tumblr.com/post/171822473274/omg-omg-okay-so-so-far-i-havent-found-out-what), and [Prompto’s Barcode on all graphic settings](https://dizzymoogle.tumblr.com/post/171825083744/dizzymoogle-promptos-barcode-on-all-graphic). Go check them out, along with the rest of that human’s fabulous work!
> 
> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)

Noctis no longer knows what’s real and what’s not. Sometimes Ardyn lies and sometimes he tells the truth, but that’s nothing new. Noctis is doing his best to shut it all out, but when he hears the words "I do believe he’s stopped breathing" he has to make a decision. He decides that it’s true. 

So when they round a corner to find Prompto stretched out on a rack, Noct’s breath hitches in his throat and his eyes flush with tears. He’s grieving before he can process what’s happened. I did this, he tells himself. Not Ardyn. I pushed Prompto off the train and left him for dead. Ardyn just took advantage of the situation.

There’s a hand against his back. A soft, familiar voice speaks directly into his ear. "Noct. He’s alive." And he is. Gladio has moved to open the cell, Ignis’ hand is guiding him, and Prompto is breathing because he’s alive.

Noctis pushes forward and unhooks the cuffs that hold Prompto’s wrists to a kind of makeshift torture device. A torture device, because Ardyn was torturing him, and it’s all Noctis’ fault. Prompto slumps against him and he slides them both to floor, propping his leg at an angle so Prompto doesn’t go down too fast. Noctis can’t stop holding him, half expects him to flinch away, but he doesn’t, just rests his entire weight against Noct’s chest like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the world.

Ignis’ voice breaks through the moment, barely registering. "Are you hurt?" he asks, and Prompto gives a mumbled "I’m fine", because of course Prompto would say he’s fine when he’s covered in bruises like this. Noctis holds Prompto at arm’s length to take inventory. He doesn’t last more than a few seconds, has to look away. It’s just so horrible. 

"Tell me, were you worried about me?"

Noctis says "of course, what kind of question is that?" He holds Prompto by the shoulders and forces him to make eye contact. Meeting Prompto’s eyes is like staring into a thousand suns, and it does things to Noctis, things he would rather not think about. Best to ignore those piercing blue eyes that sometimes bleed over into violet, the kind of violet that speaks of a connection to the Astrals. A connection Prompto doesn’t have. That privilege resides with Noctis. And Luna, before she died.

There’s something in those eyes that doesn’t sit quite right. They seem more violet – no, red – than usual. The niggling voice in the back of Noct’s head that tells him there is danger here grows louder. He chooses to ignore it. Ardyn’s illusions, he thinks. Prompto rounding corners just ahead of him, MTs in his place, that’s what this is. Just another lie. In front of him is Prompto, his friend. 

Prompto looks away. "That’s why you came," he says, posture riddled with guilt, "like I believed you would."

"Can you stand?" Noctis asks. He stands himself, then reaches out a hand. Prompto just looks at him for a long moment, but it’s not fear there in his face. It’s a face in the midst of making a decision.

Noct’s hand remains empty. 

"Prom?" he says, uncertain. 

No answer. 

"Prompto. We have to go."

Prompto’s face hardens. His jaw sets. He meets Noctis’ eyes now, for real, and he’s not looking away. "No," he says. It’s almost a whisper. Then, before Noctis can open his mouth to protest, he says it again, louder. 

"No."

Noctis casts about, searching for help, but Ignis and Gladio are deep in conversation, no doubt giving him and Prompto a moment to themselves. He returns to the matter at hand, one syllable muttered twice, a syllable that doesn’t compute. "What?" he hisses, "What do you mean no?"

Prompto looks unsure now, but he pushes ahead anyway, and what comes next catches Noctis so off-guard that he thinks it must be a joke.

"I’m staying."

"What?" he asks again, dumbly.

"I’m staying," Prompto repeats. "Here. I’m staying here."

He feels like he’s been punched, and he doesn’t know why. Prompto is delirious, he thinks. Ardyn did something to him. Left him weak with hunger, refused him water, played those gods-damned mind games. Or maybe he’s just been here too long and nothing is making sense anymore.

Nothing is making sense anymore.

Noctis must look as lost as he feels, because Prompto is resting a hand on his arm, speaking softly. "Noct," he says, "I’m one of them."

"You’re – what?"

"I’m one of them. One of them -- " and here he gestures vaguely, but Noctis understands. He understands, but it’s still not computing. 

"No," he hears himself saying, "you’re one of us."

"No. I’m not." Soft and sad.

A long silence. Noctis opens his mouth again, tries to protest, to tell Prompto that he’s everything.

"I waited, you know," Prompto says. "I didn’t have to be here when you came."

"What do you mean?"

"I’ve started training. But the facilities here are small, limited. The only people left are immune - they’re doing their best…" Prompto is talking, but Noctis can’t hear what he’s saying. The words fade out and a faint buzzing fades in.

He hears a muffled curse behind him, hears Ignis say, "Noct, we must go. Somebody’s coming".

Noctis stands. Prompto doesn’t move, and it’s clear he doesn’t plan on following.

"What’s going on? " Ignis asks. Nobody’s filled him in. It’s so easy to forget that he needs to be told.

"Iggy, I can’t leave without him." Panic, barely contained.

Ignis, always calm, simply says "Ah." Then, a plan: "There is a saferoom at the end of the corridor. Prompto, you will explain yourself there." 

Prompto jerks his head exactly once, a parody of a nod.

"Do you think it’s safe, Iggy?" Gladio says, scowling. Noctis isn’t sure if "it" is Prompto or the decision to bring him along. He glares at Gladio.

There is a matching glare in Ignis’ voice when he speaks. "For Astrals’ sake, Gladio. This is Prompto. I don’t see him turning against us anytime soon."

Noctis steals a glance back at Prompto. He is staring at the concrete floor, worrying his lower lip. It’s such a Prompto thing to do that Noct breathes a sigh of relief. Whatever Ardyn has convinced his friend, he’s clearly nothing but human. He could never be a threat. 

"Prompto. Come." Noct says. Prompto stands, finally, responding to the order. Gladio looks wary but doesn’t say anything. He and Ignis leave first, moving cautiously down the corridor. It’s lined with cells, a makeshift prison. There’s a sick little room that Ardyn must have occupied – just a desk, a microphone, and a teapot. It shares a wall with Prompto’s room, and there’s plexiglass there, and fuck, Prompto must have heard the whole thing. Hours and hours of being taunted by Ardyn, words chosen carefully, special for the three of them.

Prompto follows when he goes to leave, exactly four steps behind and slightly to the left, gait stiff and jerking. It itches, somewhere, in the back of Noct’s brain, but he is too busy processing what’s inside the cells to fully notice. Clothing - shirts, pants, shoes - are draped on the floor, over benches. Cast off carelessly, as though their occupants simply melted away. Empty, like shells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and concrit are always welcome. 
> 
> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I’m starting to feel guilty. Um. *points up at the tags* This is not a nice story, folks.
> 
> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)

They file one by one into the saferoom. Gladio enters last so he can take up a position near the door. He eyes Prompto when he walks by. Prompto doesn’t return his gaze.

There’s bunk beds, cold and impersonal, a couple of lockers, and one metal chair. Noctis immediately goes for a bottom bunk, toying with the sheet. He scowls down at it like it’s done something to personally offend him. "Theres sleeping bags in the armiger," he says. "Too bad we can’t get to them." 

Prompto doesn’t snort in agreement or tell a bad joke. Instead he leans against the bed opposite, posture still and relaxed. The itch comes back, the one that whispers "threat".

It’s Ignis who speaks first. "Prompto," he says, "I believe you have a great many things to tell us."

Prompto looks up. Starts to say "okay", then stops. His voice is hoarse, so he clears his throat. "Actually, does anybody have any water? It’s - been a minute." 

Silence descends. The air is heavy with unspoken questions. 

Ignis produces a bottle of water. Noctis almost laughs, because he’s pretty sure Ignis sewed pockets along the inside of his suit jacket. He imagines them stuffed with potions, bottles of water, and energy bars. "Would you mind humming that victory tune you’re so fond of?" Ignis asks. Prompto acquiesces, and Ignis tosses the bottle toward his voice. 

He drinks the thing in five gulps, then walks to the far side of the room and tosses the bottle into a small metal trash bin. "I, uh, started training," he says. He settles on Noct’s bunk, rests his back against the wall. 

Gladio shifts like he’s thinking Prompto needs to keep his distance. 

"Training?" Noctis presses. He wants to keep Prompto talking, doesn’t know what he will do if the conversation trails off. It feels dangerous, somehow.

"Yeah." Prompto looks down at his hands. He’s playing with his fingernails, pushing the cuticles back. Something seems off about it. That goes for a lot of things Prompto is doing, but this one stands out. Noctis realizes why pretty quickly – usually Prompto would fiddle with his wrist bands, but he’s not wearing them. 

He reaches out before he can stop himself, runs his thumb over the place where the bands usually sit. Prompto doesn’t stop him, just keeps talking, and that stands out most of all, because he’s always been touchy about his wrists.

Also there’s a barcode.

"What’s that?" 

Prompto keeps his hand still. Noctis is scraping at the thing, trying to scratch it off, or smudge it, or just make it go away. "Already tried that," Prompto says, "lots of times." He sounds resigned. It makes Noctis feel a little sick. 

"Well, I fucking haven’t." He digs in harder. Prompto still doesn’t pull away, and now Noctis really is pissed. He scratches and scratches, pinches and digs. Prompto just fucking sits there and lets him. "Why aren’t you stopping me?" he finally says, and he’s yelling, but he doesn’t care.

"I’ve had it since before I can remember," Prompto says. He takes a deep, shaking breath. "I didn’t want you guys to know." He places his other hand over Noct’s where it worries at the barcode. Noctis finally lets go, and Prompto rests his arm against his knee as though nothing ever happened. Red, angry welts say otherwise. 

"It’s my designation."

"Designation," Noctis echoes. He doesn’t know how to handle this. He needs to put some space between himself and his best friend before he loses it and does something he’ll regret. He stands and runs his hands through his hair, staring up at the ceiling. 

"Designation," Prompto repeats. It’s like they’re on a loop. "But it’s not – they won’t let me use it yet."

"Won’t let you use it." A sharp pain begins between Noct’s brows. He closes his eyes and presses his fingers against the sockets; sees black spots rimmed with light. He blinks to clear them. It just makes everything worse. 

"Not until I catch up. With the others. There’s still things they need to do."

Prompto isn’t making any sense.

"Would somebody please tell me what’s happening?" Ignis asks. He sounds irritated, cross, like he did before he’d gotten used to the cane.

Gladio does the honors. "Kid’s got a freaky tattoo on his wrist." 

"Well, now you know," Prompto says, his voice steady. "I’m one of them, just like I told you." 

"Bullshit. You’re on of us," Gladio says. Three heads turn to face him, mouths open in surprise. He goes on. "Don’t say anything, Iggy. I can hear you thinking from here. He’s one of us, always has been. If he becomes something else, that’s on him."

Prompto meets Gladio’s gaze head-on. "You’re wrong."

"Prove it."

"I was programmed to kill Noct. Smuggled into Insomnia. Sent to the same school so I could get close."

Gladio starts to call bullshit again, but Noctis beats him to the punch. "Prom, that’s crazy. Whatever Ardyn did -- "

"He didn’t do anything."

"Prom." Noctis returns to the bed and takes Prompto’s arm again, turning it over to display one of the nastier burns. "He did this."

"No. He did that to get to you, not to hurt me. Ardyn - he’s a good guy."

That stops Noctis in his tracks. "You’re shitting me," he says under his breath. "Iggy. Do something."

"Let him speak, Noct." 

Prompto speaks. He sounds so sure, and Noctis doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want to hear a single word. "Ardyn let me kill my dad. Didn’t even get mad." He picks up speed, voice taking on a manic, almost desperate quality. "Dad – he was the head of the MT program. That’s why he made me." A giggle escapes. "I killed him. Took out one of Niflheim’s biggest weapons in the process. Ardyn still let me join up when I got here. He forgave me."

"Let you join up. Like you ever had a fucking choice." Gladio scrubs at his face like he’s trying to wake up. Noctis understands, because this is a terrible, unbelievable dream. None of it is making sense. It’s crystal clear to Prompto though. Except it isn’t, because he’s giving them all the wrong answers.

Noctis is going to kill Ardyn.

A considering hum, from Ignis. "Is this what you want, then?"

"Yes," Prompto says, without even a bit of uncertainty. 

"No. You weren’t -- " Noctis wonders if he’s crying, or if he’s going to cry, or if there is anything in the world that could hurt more than this. It’s absurd. He’s lost Luna, Ignis is blind, his dad is dead, Insomnia is gone. And then there’s this. The thing that will finally break him. He pauses, gets himself under control. This is important, and Prompto has to hear him. "You weren’t programmed to destroy me. You’re here because it was ordained." 

Shit, that sounds stupid.

The room is dead silent, and this time it’s for Noct. He glances nervously around, then back at Prompto, who is just looking confused now. "I mean. It was Shiva. Gentiana. They’re the same – but you wouldn’t know, would you?" Right, because Noctis pushed Prompto off the train before Gentiana showed up. Shiva. Whatever. "The letter," he finishes.

Ignis chuckles. "Eloquent as always, Noct. " It’s really not funny, but nobody says as much.

"Letter?" Prompto asks. "You don’t mean – " 

"Yeah, Luna’s letter. And before you say anything, of course I know. Luna tells – told – me everything." Noctis does his best not to stumble over the past tense. He almost succeeds. 

Prompto’s attention is on Noctis now, for better or for worse. "You could’ve told me," he whispers. He’s back to his old self for a second, nervously avoiding eye contact, a secret smile on his face. Noctis gives him a gentle shove. Prompto catches Noct’s hand and threads their fingers together. At any other time this would be a Very Big Deal. Right now it just kind of fades into the background. There’s too much happening, and it’s tangled in all the wrong ways. Not like their hands, which are warm, and familiar, and five years too late. 

"Had to let you work it out yourself," Noctis says, matching Prompto’s grin. He allows himself to hope, just for a moment. "But yeah, Gentiana was there. When Pryna returned. She told Luna to write to you." 

Prompto’s smile turns sad. "I wish it was true, Noct."

Now Noctis _is_ crying. He pulls his hand away, wipes the tears off his face. He stands up. Goes for the door. Runs into a bulky arm. 

"You’re not going anywhere, Princess. Not alone. And we’re not leaving the kid by himself either." Gladio nods in Prompto’s direction. 

"Fine," Noctis huffs, and he knows he sounds like a child. He wants to push, wants to rail against Gladio’s protectiveness. He can feel the stale air bearing down on him, like it’s not safe to breathe anymore, and he’ll take an anonymous MT over Prompto acting like this, convinced that he’s – that he’s – 

The room is too small, there are too many people in it, and Noctis doesn’t have anywhere to land. He settles for balling his hands into fists and leaning against a wall. Ignis has moved to the bed and is leaning in, asking Prompto more stupid questions. Prompto is responding, talking about how he’s finally found his people, how he’s always felt like an outsider with them. Noctis wants to scream. He’s had this talk with Prom before, said all the things he’d thought were implied - we are your people, we love you, I love you. But no. Apparently Noctis just doesn’t cut it.

"So what am I? The enemy?" He hears himself say it, but he isn’t in control of his voice. 

"Noctis. If you would – "

"Shut up, Iggy." 

"Yes," Prompto says softly. "You are."

That is so fucked up. Noct’s fist meets something hard, and then there’s an indent in the wall, red smearing across it. Gladio is holding his wrist and Prompto is staring. Ignis’ head is cocked, his forehead creased with concern. Noctis feels his face heat up. "Whatever. You do you, buddy." He rips his arm from Gladio’s grip and stalks out the door.

____

Prompto doesn’t sleep anymore.

He sits on the edge of the bunk, staring into darkness. Gladio’s snores fill the room. Noctis is just an outline, curled on one side, shivering every few seconds. Ignis is on watch, standing sentinel over both Prompto and the daemons that stalk the hallways.

Prompto doesn’t sleep, and he doesn’t think. He just sits and waits for morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by blood, sweat, and tears. Mostly tears.
> 
> With the Windows Edition of the game we can see Prompto’s designation more clearly than we could on console. We now know that it reads N-1P01357, 05953234. I updated this chapter to reflect the change. See the author’s note in Ch. 1 for some really great shots captured by @dizzymoogle on Tumblr.
> 
> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)

They leave the saferoom before Noctis is fully awake. "Gotta get to the Crystal," Gladio says. Noctis ignores the twisting in his gut. He never asked for this. 

Gladio takes an energy bar from Ignis, opens it, and drops the wrapper in the wastebasket. A couple of bites, and there’s breakfast. Prompto smells his and quietly slips it into his pocket. Noct is pretty sure that if he doubled back to the room he would find it cozied up next to Gladio’s wrapper.

He pushes the thought to the side.

The hallway is dim but not dark, walls casting shadows over concrete. There are gaps in the walls, just like the rest of the facility. The feeling of being alone, being defenseless, washes over him. The MTs found him anyway, reached their hands in, forced him to look. His only defense was the Ring, fitted to him like a shackle.

He twists the band around, runs his thumb over the stone. It burns. Less now, but still present.

He wonders if his father ever got used to it.

The MT senses them before they see it. Noctis barely has a chance to react before it’s on him, swinging an axe, all rage and no precision. A gunshot rings out and it’s down. Three heads swivel toward the sound.

"Prompto. You’re armed." Ignis says, like he’s describing the weather.

Prompto shrugs. His gun is still pointed, safety off.

"You got another target," Gladio growls, "or you just aiming for shits and giggles?"

The gun shakes, then lowers. A click and it’s holstered.

"Sorry."

"Where’d you get the gun?" Noctis asks. Prompto wasn’t armed when he pushed him off the train, and nobody can access the armiger. Ignis and Gladio have their weapons, because… well, he never asked how they got their hands on them, now that he thinks about it.

"They’re standard issue."

"Standard issue," Noctis repeats. His voice is hollow.

Gladio crosses his arms and tilts his head back, a considering look crossing his face. "Why’d you do that, anyway?" 

"Why wouldn’t I? He was threatening Noct." 

A crease forms between Gladio’s eyebrows. He frowns and kicks at the MT. The ting of metal echoes off the walls. "Ain’t that your brother in arms?"

"Oh." Prompto says, like he finally understands the line of questioning. "No, those ones – the ones that move like that? They’re feral."

"Look the same to me," Noctis says. He doesn’t know why he’s joining this argument, isn’t sure he wants to know which MTs Prompto is loyal to.

"It’s their wiring," Prompto goes on, oblivious to Noctis’ discomfort. "They have, like, a corrupt operating system I guess? Starts in their cores and spread from there. Happens if they’re not programmed."

"Programmed," Noctis says slowly. "Like you."

"Yeah. That," he gestures, "won’t happen to me."

Noctis looks over at Ignis. His head is tilted away, lips pressed together in distaste. "We best be moving on, then," Ignis says, voice carefully neutral, expression unchanging, voice cold. 

_____

Ravus is not the man he once was.

Loyal, Noctis tells them. To Luna.

Traitor, Ignis adds. To the Empire.

Prompto fights alongside them, but it is not them he fights for.

_____

Noctis resists, when it happens.

He resists, because his friends are behind him, and they used all their potions fighting Ravus, and there are more daemons than three men can handle.

 _Two_ , Ardyn reminds him, _if Prompto declines to play nice. And if that happens, who will help poor Ignis?_

He stops resisting. Tells Ardyn to fuck off.

They’ve got this.

____

The room is silent, the Crystal dim.

"Do you think he’s inside?" Prompto asks.

Gladio shrugs. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Prompto looks at the Crystal as though it has answers. He reaches out tentatively, is stopped by a giant hand on his wrist. He tries to wrestle away. The grasp tightens. "No touching, MT," Gladio says. It’s bitter and blaming and mean.

"Gladio." Ignis spits it, voice sharp like knives.

"Your King is in there, Iggy. Or did you forget already? Crystal’s already been desecrated by Niffs. Not gonna let another one sully it."

"Fine," Prompto says. "I won’t touch it." Gladio releases him.

Prompto moves away, leans against a metal railing. The other two talk in hushed voices. Every once in a while Ignis speaks above a whisper and Gladio shushes him. "Prompto deserves to hear this," Ignis says, pointedly raising his voice, and it’s the beginning of another fight. 

The argument ends when Gladio huffs out a "whatever" and fists his hands into his pockets. He walks over to Prompto, tension clear in his gait. "We’re sitting vigil. The resident strategist says you can stay." His voice drips with sarcasm.

"I can hear you, you know," Ignis snaps.

"You wanna keep fighting? ’Cause I’m good for it," Gladio responds, and he’s yelling.

Ignis throws up his hands. "I’m taking a walk." He sets out in a random direction, comes up against cold steel.

"Nowhere to walk to," Gladio mutters.

Ignis lowers himself to the ground.

_____

They stay for three days. The Crystal gives no sign that anything’s changed. It doesn’t glow, doesn’t sing, doesn’t spit their King back out. It sits silent and empty and cold, like the Keep itself.

Gladio and Ignis take turns standing guard. Prompto leaves during the day, comes back at night. Every evening, when he returns, Gladio and Ignis engage in a silent battle of wills. Every evening, Ignis wins. 

Boots across the ramparts. Stop at each branching walkway. Eyes on the door. Don’t approach the pods. Feral MTs don’t discriminate. 

Prompto does it exactly once. Gladio blames him afterwards. Even Ignis looks wary.

The room is otherwise silent. Pace, talk, wait. No cards to pass the time. No King’s Knight. No King.

The physical changes progress quickly. On day one, faint spiderwebbing is already present, snaking its way under pale skin. Day two brings more changes, black creeping outward from Prompto’s ribcage, bypassing veins altogether. The blood vessels in his eyes bring hues of red, spreading from the whites to the irises. Violet becomes crimson; not glowing, just a reminder.

Gladio points it out. "Your eyes," he says on day three.

"Yeah," Prompto says. "They don’t know why they’re doing that. It’s not supposed to happen until later."

"Later," Ignis echoes.

"When I get the suit."

"At that point you’ll be --"

____

"Name?"

"N-1P013 – "

"No. Your name."

Prompto deflates a little. He’s sitting on a metal table. It’s cold, paper lining a failed buffer. The gown he’s wearing is paper too, with three ties in the back. The lowest one is knotted. The rest of the paper, pulled down to his waist, crinkles under his hands. He tries not to fidget. "Argentum. Uh, Prompto."

"Prompto." The woman’s voice is calm, comforting. "I know you want to advance. You’re behind, it’s true. But… go by your name for as long as you can. Trust me."

"Okay," Prompto says. He doesn’t sound certain.

She hangs a tan-colored bag, attaches a length of opaque tubing, and carefully runs whatever is in the bag through the tube, priming it. He’s already got a port in his chest. It feeds into a major vein so whatever they’re giving him will work fast. The woman prods at the site. "No redness or swelling," she says. "Seems intact. Any pain?"

"No ma’am."

She laughs, high and musical. "I’m a scientist, not a drill sergeant."

"Sorry, ma’am – I mean -- "

"Bethany."

Prompto stares. Stutters out her name, then blushes. She ignores him, having gone back to her task. The tubing is fed through a machine, switched on. Click, click, click, whirr, over and over again.

"Ma’am – Bethany," Prompto starts.

"Hmmm?"

He fidgets, opens his mouth, thinks, and closes it again. Impulse wins out and he asks, "When do I transfer to the training facility?"

She studies him before answering his question. An expression crosses her face, difficult to decipher. "When you’re finished with your treatments. Maybe three more? It depends on how you respond."

Prompto avoids looking at the port. He rubs at his barcode instead. "Okay," he says.

"Besides, you want to say goodbye to your friends, right?"

"Oh. Yeah. Sure."

____

Prompto’s steps echo down the corridor. His posture is that of a soldier, tall and certain. Fifteen rifles pointing upward, forward, down, and back up. One echoing shot.

Fourteen Magitek suits. One head of messy blonde hair.

Ignis and Gladio are talking when he returns. Their voices lower when he comes into the room. He approaches. "Hey guys," he says, plopping down next to them. 

"Prompto," Ignis greets.

"New gun," Gladio points out, both in lieu of a hello and to let Ignis know.

"Yeah, we’re working with rifles."

"Lemme see." Gladio holds out an arm, and Prompto hands the weapon over. Gladio turns it over in his hands, pops the barrel open and closes it again, and lets out a low whistle. "She’s nice, for standard issue. Weapons trader in Lestallum would lose his shit over this."

Prompto nods, pleased. "So," he segues, "whatcha talking about?"

The mood shifts immediately. Gladio won’t look at Prompto. Ignis’ face becomes a mask, cold and distant. The silence stretches, and stretches, and stretches, until Prompto is picking at his pants, an old habit that hasn’t surfaced for days. They’re still Crownsguard issue, Coeurl-print, paired with his signature vest. _It’s a beautiful day, now watch some bastard fuck it up._

As always, Ignis is the one to break the silence. "Prompto," he says, each word weighed, chosen for its relevance. "We would have you, should you decide to stay."

"With us," Gladio adds.

Prompto stops fiddling. He fixes Ignis, then Gladio in turn, with a look that conveys love, and respect, and determination, lined up in order, meaning clear. "I’ve made my choice," he says. There is no uncertainty in his voice.

"You come back," Gladio says. "At night."

"Why wouldn’t I? You guys are my friends."

"Not sleeping in the barracks?"

Prompto hesitates. "MTs don’t need barracks," he finally says.

"They sleep in the pods?" Gladio hooks a thumb over his shoulder.

"Not sleep. Charge." A breath. MTs don’t breathe. "I – I’m not like them yet. Won’t ever be, really." He smiles, but there’s an edge to it. "I’m different. Special." Hope, with the word special.

Ignis makes an understanding noise. "Because you are human."

"I’m a clone."

"We know," Gladio says.

"Gladio." An admonishment.

"You gonna deny it?"

"Prompto is one of us. He belongs with us." For the first time, Ignis sounds desperate. 

Prompto holds out his arm in answer. The webbing has grown darker, obscuring his freckles.

"He can’t see it," Gladio reminds him, gruff and frustrated.

He rests the arm in his lap. "Ignis, you know better." Those words, so out of character. It goes unnoticed, wrapped up in the rest of the madness.

"Prompto, if you were going to betray us, you would have done it by now."

"I don’t have to yet."

Ignis runs a hand through his hair. It falls down over his face. No gel without the armiger, no help without Prompto. "So you wish to remain loyal." It’s half-question, half-statement.

"I can’t, Iggy." Finally, finally, regret.

"But you wish to."

Prompto hangs his head. "Aranea said I should start doing what I want, instead of what other people want. But I don’t know – I thought -- "

Gladio looks up sharply. "Aranea’s messed up in all this?"

"Gladio, she is an ally." Ignis’ shoulders are set, but he looks weary.

"She’s a Niff, Ignis."

A deep sigh. "This sudden foray into xenophobia does not suit you, Gladiolus."

"It’s not xenophobia when she’s working for Ardyn."

"Aranea dropped her contract. You know that. She has doubts about the empire, doesn’t support their work with daemons. She told us about it. Oh, I remember now, you weren’t there -- "

" -- and I wouldn’t have left if I’d known you were gonna be fraternizing with the enemy."

"We did not fraternize --"

Gladio stands, and Ignis follows him up. "I have no idea how the fuck you managed to keep _your King_ alive for so long," Gladio says, and he’s yelling. They’re both yelling, right over top of each other. Prompto joins in, timing all wrong, all old Prompto, all lighthearted truth.

"Dude, you were totally fraternizing."

Ignis closes his mouth with a snap, not yet retreating. Gladio turns away, stares up at the ceiling.

"They were," Prompto says, defending himself.

"Thank you Prompto, for your input." Ignis offers. "I am going to step out of this conversation, if you two don’t mind."

"Get some sleep, Iggy." Gladio tries for a conciliatory tone, almost makes it, but the sentiment is lost when he says, "You’ll come around in the morning."

"One of us will, anyhow," Ignis says, and the cut is intentional. He feels his way around the edges of the platform to the base of the crystal and lies down. He doesn’t even pretend to sleep. The night – or what passes for night - drifts on.

_____

"So why’d you shoot Ardyn?" Gladio asks, later.

"I swore an oath to protect Noct. That means keeping you alive."

"I thought you were working for the Niffs."

"I’m not a threat, yet. So… still loyal." There’s something sad in the words.

"But when you turn, you won’t be?"

Prompto doesn’t answer.

"That’s defecting," Gladio says. "From the Crownsguard. Betraying your King." His voice is surprisingly neutral, like he’s chastising a new recruit.

Prompto’s response is steely, his face set. "I defected years ago. Twice. When I left the facility, and when I joined the Guard." 

Old anger rears its head. "And how does the Empire treat traitors? You saw what happened to Ravus."

"Ravus deserved it," Prompto recites. It’s like he’s dredging up facts from a textbook.

_____

"They’re coming," Prompto shouts. He’s running into the chamber, doors closing behind him.

"What? " Ignis says. "Who?"

"Daemons. You’re going to be overrun again." Prompto looks back. "And the rest of the MTs."

"Shit." Gladio hefts his broadsword. He takes a defensive position. 

"You have to leave. I’ll swipe you out when you’re ready."

Gladio looks from the Crystal to the door and back again. "No way."

"Gladio, he’s right. We don’t have enough potions between us." Ignis’ voice is commanding. Daemons are starting to materialize, imps and reapers and more. There’s a puddle of miasma the size of a house, the arm of an iron giant just peeking through.

"We can’t leave the Crystal." But Gladio sounds uncertain.

"Aranea has an airship. Waiting outside. Biggs and Wedge and some others are infiltrating the facility. They’ll get the Crystal out for you, take it something safe." 

A sword scrapes across the ground, echoing mightily. Ignis follows the noise. "Another Iron Giant. You’re coming with us, it’s not safe to stay."

"It’s too late. You know that."

"Bullshit." Gladio speaks plainly of fealty and history and trust. His words are steady. Ignis smiles, and it’s proud.

"I’ll turn any day, and then you’ll have to kill me anyway."

"We’ll find you a cure. There is work already --"

"The Oracle is dead."

"Prompto," Ignis snaps, "don’t argue with me."

Soft, almost silent, metal against leather. A click that announces Prompto has readied to fire.

"Put your gun down, now." And Gladio is panicked, if he wasn’t before.

"No," Prompto says. "Not until you leave."

"Fuck. Ignis, he -- "

"Stay focused, Gladio. Prompto, you are coming with us."

"No. I’m not. Get out of here." A shot, once, in the air. "Who’s gonna wait for your King if you get yourself killed?"

"He’s Noct. Your best friend." 

"Get out," Prompto repeats. Another shot.

"We don’t have time to drag the kid with us if he doesn’t wanna go, Iggy." There’s a scuffle. A deep gash appears across Gladio’s arm. "Shit, fucker got me." He ducks. "We gotta leave, now."

"I will not fight you on this, not here. But we’re coming back for him." 

They run for the door. There’s a beep, Prompto’s barcode against the access lock. Ignis looks back as though he can see, horror and guilt and ruin etched on his face. Gladio pushes him forward. It’s meant to be gentle, a reminder to move quickly. Ignis stumbles anyway. When he rights himself, the expression is gone.

They flee. Prompto stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have meta on Prompto! If people are interested I can post it.
> 
> Thank you all for being amazing.
> 
> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got long so I split it. The next one will be the last. See you in a week!
> 
> Thanks to [somnus_divina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somnus_divina) for chatting with me about older Noctis.
> 
> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)

_The light waxes full. Go forth to the Kingdom, where the Usurper awaits. Reclaim the throne, and fulfill the calling of the True King._

Galdin is… 

Galdin is…

That’s Coctura. Empty shirt, perky nametag, work slacks, shoes. Apron at the waist.

Was.

That was Coctura.

Unspeakable.

Galdin is unspeakable.

A bed Noctis recognizes, once full of tangled limbs, full of hope. Now, torn to shreds. No early morning sun. No gentle breath against his cheek. No Ignis, clutching the newspaper, willing himself to speak. Just high-pitched chattering, gleeful laughs, crescent-shaped blades. Just his father’s ring, still burning. Just shadows, outlines, the world warping around a stone. Just Noctis. Just silence.

He moves on. Dodges long claws, nightmare creature growing from rock. Does the earth itself have the Scourge, or did some poor creature contract it and turn into – into that? Another, one swipe, and he’s technically dead. He opens his hand, closes it. Phoenix down.

What an end that would have been, the King of Light taken out by a daemon on the side of an empty highway.

Feet catch in a crack. He stumbles. Looks up, and he has to shield his eyes. He’s only lived in darkness for the better part of an hour, but it doesn’t matter. Those headlights – like the Regalia. A horn, honking.

_Talcott._

_Your Majesty._

Talcott is on the phone, calling Ignis sir. It’s strange. Noctis wants to ask. About Ignis, about Gladio, about Pr –

He stares out the window instead. Tells Talcott he looks different. 

Fire stalks the darkness.

_____

Noctis lowers himself from the truck. He grimaces when his feet hit concrete, rubs at his knee. What he wouldn’t give for his father’s brace. A better keepsake than the ring, really.

He laughs bitterly. A throat clears in response, proper and inexplicably accented.

Ignis.

"Hey," Noctis says. He tucks his hands into his pockets and ducks his head like he’s sixteen again. Ignis smiles wide, face full of pride and relief and gratitude. Noctis’ heart swells with something close to love. 

Fuck it, who’s he kidding? His heart swells with love.

Another voice, low and rumbling. "Hey? That’s all you have to say for yourself after all this time?" Gladio shoves him playfully, then wraps him in the biggest hug he’s ever been on the receiving end of. He hugs back. It’s good. There’s a hand in his hair, testing, smoothing, pulling. Knots Noctis didn’t realize were there are slowly worked to the ends, then out. A jaw scrapes across his, stubble meeting stubble. There’s a pause, too many emotions, and then Gladio’s withdrawn, giving him space.

Space so he can breathe.

Right. Breathe.

Nobody says anything for a long moment. The empty air hangs like a line dropped. The blocking’s awkward, and there’s a gap, a space left for somebody that doesn’t exist.

"Well, well," Ignis starts in. "You kept us –"

That’s all it takes – it hits him. A blind spot and he’s just turned his head. "Where’s Prompto?" Noctis asks. Prompto is supposed to be here. He’s got a line, some stage directions, and –

A hand lands on Noctis’ shoulder, and he jumps. Ignis startles in turn. "Apologies," Ignis says. He’s in Noctis’ personal space, practically breathing down his neck. Noctis shifts away. Ignis stays, awkward and uncertain. He opens his mouth, pauses, then speaks. "Perhaps we should head inside." His voice is all false cheer. The hand still on Noctis’ shoulder steers him toward a door. There’s crates, a makeshift fence, and the weapons guy is the only game in town. The shark above the garage is missing a fin, metal poking out in its stead. The whole milieu is like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. Noctis turns it around; once, twice. Again, and it clicks. They’re at Hammerhead, at the garage. Noctis knows this. There are scorch marks on the ground from some long-ago battle, even inside the ring of floodlights. The lights are harsh, bearing down on him, almost scorching. His skin crawls like he’s got daemons inside, but it’s just the light, bright and unforgiving, standing out in contrast to the utter darkness of the night sky.

He’s pretty sure of that.

Then Takka is there and Noctis is being passed a bowl of jambalaya with a side of _Majesty_. There are beans in the bowl. He glares at them. Takka gives him a look before bursting into laughter, and then Noctis is laughing and that bright grin is back on Ignis’ face, and Gladio is doubled over with tears down his face. They laugh and guffaw and giggle until they’re all four wheezing and unable to speak. Ignis finally guides him, gently, to the sole remaining booth, sliding in himself before offering up the outermost seat to his king. 

Gladio takes up residence in the seat opposite them. His bulk fills the space, and he claims half the table when he leans forward.

"Noct," he says. The levity drains right out of the room. "How much do you know?"

_…a power greater than the Six, purifying all by the Light of the Crystal and the glaives of rulers past…_

A hand in his. Fingers tangled. Finally.

_…providence is received on the throne by the chosen, his own life is the cost…_

A gun, held, shaking.

_…many sacrificed all for the king…_

Blue-violet eyes hedging into red. Steady and determined.

_…so must the king sacrifice himself for the life of all._

Empty clothes. Moonless night. Scorch marks on the ground.

Three instead of four.

He knows a lot.

"Some," he responds carefully. He meets Gladio’s gaze, lets him see the questions dancing there.

They tell him it’s been ten years, and when he doesn’t believe them, Gladio pulls a pane of glass from his pocket. Chipped and dirty, not quite a mirror, but a reflection is cast when it’s tilted just so. He takes in the stubble, the way his hair has grown in, how grey is mixed into both. His jaw is wider than it was at twenty. There’s lines at the corners of his eyes. Lines under his eyes, too, but he’s always had those. Something of his father sits just out of sight, showing itself in his cheekbones, his shoulders, his calm.

He takes a deep breath and asks the question he’s been avoiding since he took Talcott’s hand and hauled himself into the truck. "And Prompto?"

Ignis arranges his face until it is carefully blank, carefully neutral. A point in the distance is suddenly worthy of Gladio’s full attention. The combination of their responses stirs panic in Noctis’ chest. Something is wrong. Something is wrong with Prompto and his friends won’t talk about it. "Guys?" he says, feeling helpless.

"Noct, I – " Ignis starts. "We – "

"He didn’t make it out," Gladio finishes.

Noctis’ stomach hits the floor. His hands are shaking and when he opens his mouth nothing comes out. Picking up the water glass is probably a bad idea, because he knocks it over before he can fully wrap his hand around it. 

"How?" Noctis asks. He is distantly aware of Gladio asking Takka for a towel. Water is pooling over the table and the front of his shirt is wet. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters, because Prompto is dead. Prompto is dead, that’s why he’s not here, and who know how long he’s even been gone. 

_He didn’t make it out._

The Keep. 

Ten years. 

Prompto has been dead for ten years. 

In the Crystal, there were images. Prompto, pushing the Regalia, teasing Gladio. Prompto with his arms around Noct’s shoulders, camera turned around to catch their faces. Prompto playing with Talcott, petting a chocobo, posing with his gun, tripping over himself.

"He wouldn’t come with us," Gladio explains. It's a flimsy excuse, but Noctis doesn't notice. His brain has turned off. It still must be registering something though, because those words and the concept of _dead_ grate against one another, out of harmony.

_He wouldn’t come with us._

_Here. I’m staying here._

It all slams together. For a moment Noctis feels like he’s summoned the Tidemother, all of her power contained in one plastic cup. There is water in his lap, Gladio is making a pile of sopping wet napkins, and Ignis is shifting uncomfortably in his seat, too polite to ask his king to move so he can stand and dry himself off.

They left him.

Noctis is up and across the room like he’s twenty years old and throwing a tantrum. Heads remain carefully turned, neighboring conversations carried on in low murmurs as though the King of Light isn’t behaving like a child in the middle of the diner. He stands in the corner by the bathrooms, arms crossed over his chest. A picture catches his attention. Takka and Cindy and Cid. Prompto took a photo of it. There were matching pictures all through Lucis. They’d made a game of finding them. 

He grits his teeth when the tears fall. 

There’s a hand on his back again, familiar and warm. Twenty-year-old Noctis would have pushed it away, warped out the door and into the night. He isn’t twenty any more. He is a king. He has a destiny. As such, he turns and faces Ignis, mind combing through the words he will use to communicate exactly what he feels about the fact that his Shield and his advisor left his best friend in a Magitek facility full of daemons, that they left him behind to fend for himself.

The words come out slow and deliberate. "Nothing you say will make it okay." 

"I know," Ignis says softly.

Gladio is there, then, and he also has a hand on Noctis. Calming, reassuring. "We went back for him, Noct. He was gone."

"And you didn’t think to keep looking? You would have found him - you knew he was going to transfer. How many MT facilities are still up and running?"

Gladio looks directly at Noctis. "Three," he says. "He’s gone," he says. "Transformed."

"I don’t care," Noctis replies. "We can go, we can find him now."

Ignis runs his thumb along Noctis’ cheekbone. It comes away wet. "Whatever is left of Prompto, it isn’t him. He had – he was like Ravus, Noctis." 

"He was loyal to the end, if that matters," Gladio adds. 

Noctis pushes Ignis’ hand down, cutting off the intimacy of the touch. "How does that make anything better? I can’t believe you would – how am I supposed to trust a Crownsguard that won’t look after their own men?"

"Majesty, if I may, you were our priority –"

"Cut the Majesty crap, Specs. This is beyond forgivable."

Ignis doesn’t flinch, doesn’t set his jaw. He stands there, posture perfect, communicating an appropriate amount of guilt by the position of his shoulders alone. "I am aware, Noct, and were the circumstances different I would submit myself to judgement. As it stands, our time together is limited."

Something else clicks into place. 

"You know."

Fingers twitch. Blue sparks, but no trace of metal. An acknowledgement: it is best to be armed when you’ve cornered an animal.

One eye open, as it were.

"Ignis. How long have you known?"

Hesitation. "A very long time." Nothing more is offered, so Noctis waits. Draws it out. As expected, Ignis acquiesces. He never could refuse his liege. "I learned of your fate in Altissia." The words are tinged with a bitter sadness, stirring up memories of days spent lost between waking and sleep. 

Grief. Ignis is grieving, has been grieving. For him, all this time. 

"You didn’t do anything to stop it." The words are cruel, the ones that come next even more. "My father instructed you to care for me. Not lead me to my death."

"That is exactly what he wished, Noct. As you are well aware." Ignis can be cruel too. Daggers when you least expect them.

A familiar urge to escape rears its head, and Noctis gives in. He brushes past Ignis. Two steps toward the door and he stops. He can’t do it, can’t leave, can’t let it go. He turns around. Pitches his voice low and level, allows the anger to bleed through. "You don’t deserve the dawn." He says it with all the weight of the line of Lucis, all of his ancestors speaking at once.

Ignis doesn't respond, just accepts his sentence, head bowed. Gladio nods. "We’ll be here," he says, "in the morning." He means tomorrow, before the dawn, means they will stay by his side to the end. That, the steadfastness of it, is enough. Rage flickers out. Noctis is shaking, exhausted, ten years of Providence finally taking its toll. He stumbles backward. The move is anticipated – two shadows close in to support him, four arms break his fall. He finds himself caught, held, loved.

"Let’s get you to bed," Gladio murmurs. "We can talk tomorrow."

Gladio means it, but that doesn’t matter; they won’t talk in the morning. Anything spoken would be a footnote, forgotten over aeons of retelling. He allows himself to be led, one large hand on his elbow and an arm across his back. A protest of rusted springs and they are in the caravan. He is bathed, dressed, tucked into bed. "You’re gonna have to wake me," he says, voice already thick with sleep. A low chuckle and a palm across his forehead, warm blankets, the slap of plastic on metal as the door shuts. Footsteps retreat. Low voices fade into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all rock my world with your comments and such.
> 
> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *points up at tags* I mean it, y’all.
> 
> So I referenced these posts by [@dizzymoogle](https://dizzymoogle.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr pretty heavily for canon compliance in this fic: [FFXV Magitek Troopers](https://dizzymoogle.tumblr.com/post/170742570984/ffxv-magitek-troopers), [MT Barcodes](https://dizzymoogle.tumblr.com/post/171822473274/omg-omg-okay-so-so-far-i-havent-found-out-what), and [Prompto’s Barcode on all graphic settings](https://dizzymoogle.tumblr.com/post/171825083744/dizzymoogle-promptos-barcode-on-all-graphic). Go check them out, along with the rest of that human’s fabulous work!
> 
> Also, please note that I went back and ninja-edited Prompto’s designation in a previous chapter to be up to date with current high-res Windows Edition photos (see links above). Guess what? We were wrong all along! His designation is N-1P01357, 05953234.
> 
> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)

_Click. Click. Whirr._

A harsh buzzing echoes across empty space. 

_Click. Click. Whirr._

Again.

 _Click. Click. Whirr._

Air thick with the smell of metal and rubber. A red afterglow floats through the room.

Posters, bright and cheerful: Hairnet. Goggles. Apron. Mask. A circle crossed over a finger. Blood, red to maroon to black. An arrow. The shape of an imp. 

Fragile: Glass.

Danger: Plague.

A conveyer belt. Loose latex gloves on the ground, yellow paint alongside; an outline of feet. 

No shoes to fill them. 

Two-by-two, the arrival of canisters. Air sucked through tubes. Miasma transformed into energy; crackling, pink.

Fragile: Glass.

Danger: Plague.

Numbers are stamped across each, barcode directly below. 

A mechanical arm reaches out. Open. _Click._ Close. _Click._ The embrace of a claw, guiding and gentle. A short ride up, and then sideways, to rest against grooves. _Whirr._ Fed through the scanner, accounted for. _Beep_. 

Wooden boxes stacked neatly. First one lands on a belt. Slats are inserted, arranged in a grid. Outside, a stamp. One designation, nine unique codes.

At the top, bracketed: **N-1P01357**

In the middle, announcing: **05953228 - 05953237.**

At the end, six words, two-by-two, except for the last:

Fragile: Glass.

Danger: Plague.

Transfer: Facility Three.

_____ 

A capsule is scanned, dropped into a box. Column two, row three.

 **N-1P01357, 05953234**

Six words, two-by two, except for the last:

Fragile: Glass.

Danger: Plague.

Transfer: Facility Three.

____

Noctis wakes up in the dark, just like everyone else.

The bed creaks, mattress springs long given up. He rubs sleep from his eyes. Stubble rakes across knuckles. Old palms find new lines. 

All of his muscles are sore. His feet hit the floor and he stretches, extends one leg, winces at the pop, and stands. His knee buckles. He grasps blindly, finds a countertop.

His earlier estimation was off by a fraction. Light filters in through slats made of tin, harsh stripes across linoleum. He wonders – if there were no window, would daemons live here?

Touch leads the way to a bench. A table is there, pulled down from the wall. Fabric, stiff and unyielding, brushes his arm. Kingly, and it’s the first time.

Sleepwear comes off. It’s rumpled but the seams are still crisp. He sits on the bench, boxers bunching at the crease of his leg, holds the pants to his face, and breathes in.

They’re clean, the scent of soap overwhelming. Soap, in the darkness. How precious. It’s only a piece of him, though. There’s more; pepper and ginger and _Ignis_ ; and this doesn’t smell like that. It hits him, then, that he’s alone. He’d had so much to say. 

No time for it now.

He takes one last breath, seeking that scent. Still absent. Cotton is good for wiping up tears. He blinks, dries his face, then puts them aside.

Slacks, then, newly pressed. Made for a boy at twenty. They fit, loose skin at the waist notwithstanding.

An attempt to stand, sharp breath and back down. There’s a brace on the table, gilded and regal. He picks it up. His father is in every line, every place that it folds. The metal is cold.

There’s a hesitant knock at the door. With the brace he can walk without pain, so he does. Two steps to the threshold. Two clicks of the door handle. Two retainers, lit up from behind.

"Majesty," Ignis says. "We were hoping we might come up with a plan."

Noctis considers. "Still dressing," he says, "but come in."

It’s cramped with three, but it’s better than being alone. Ignis helps him dress, fits the cape to his torso. He traces a hand down Noctis’ front, checking the buttons. "Regal," he says before reaching. He stops just shy of Noctis’ face. Permission requested.

Noctis leans forward and closes his eyes. There’s a palm, warm and sincere. Foreheads touch. Breaths mingle.

"I miss him." Noctis doesn’t know if he means his father or Prompto.

"We know."

"I thought – I thought I’d made my peace."

"Doesn’t matter. You’re strong either way." Gladio’s voice breaks with the words. Three bodies press tight. Faces twist into grief. They’re not holding back.

Ignis manifests not one, but three handkerchiefs. Noctis chuckles. "Why does this not surprise me?" he asks. 

"A chamberlain must always be prepared," Ignis says. He’s smiling, mouth half-open, and it warms Noctis’ heart. 

A loud honk close to Noctis’ ear; Gladio’s blowing his nose.

Noctis groans and wipes at his eyes. "Gross, Gladio." Gladio chases him with a handful of snot, and the world feels slightly more stable.

It doesn’t heal things, exactly. Healing takes time, and they know it. They sit down to draw up a plan, crack jokes and share casual touch. It’s close enough to what _was_ that it works. It’s not perfect, but it’s them, and they’re ready. 

____

Cold air.

Concrete floor.

A man stands behind a Plexiglass window, keying in orders.

_Coordinates: 35°42'40.5"N, 139°44'28.8"E_

_Target: Noctis Lucis Caelum. Age 30. 68 inches, 148 pounds. Black hair, grey-blue eyes._

_Additional Orders: Patrol for enemy units. Engage hostiles._

Below; three rows and three columns. Metal casings resembling soldiers. Mock hands, mock face, mock helmet. A cavity, there at the center.

Another man paces the rows. He is layer upon layer of darkness. He reaches a unit, cradles its face, runs a hand down its chest to its 

(heart.)

Fingers pinch. In lieu of complaint, a door opens.

Glass and metal, pink crackling core. A click and the unit is whole.

Task completed, the man pats its chest. "Good boy," he says, satisfaction curling his lips. "Now come along. We wouldn’t want to keep our king waiting." He waves at the window. Behind him a hangar door opens.

Chest cavities flicker, eye sockets glow.

Nine rifles point up, forward, down, and back up. Eighteen boots march in rhythm.

_____

Insomnia is on fire. The sky is so bright it glows red. 

A line of broken-down cars mark an old checkpoint. "This is as far as I take you," Talcott says. Noctis nods, gets out of the truck. He approaches the place where the Wall once stood, radiating with the power of Kings. He stops, and his

(three) 

two 

oldest friends move to stand alongside.

Gladio’s hand lands on his shoulder. "You ready?"

Noctis’ eyes are dry, his face resolute. "Ready as I’ll ever be."

Another hand finds his back. "We’re proud of you," Ignis says. His voice is choked with emotion.

"Let’s do this." 

They walk through the gates.

_____

Insomnia is on fire. The MTs aren’t aware.

They stand by, waiting and silent. The bodies of Glaives mark the ground at their feet.

_Target: Noctis Lucis Caelum. Age 30. 68 inches, 148 pounds. Black hair, grey-blue eyes._

_Additional Orders: Patrol for enemy units. Engage hostiles._

Three men approach. Magic hisses under their skin. It’s the same magic wielded by the Glaives at their feet, only stronger. It pulls at the daemons inside them.

A flash of blue. _Target engaged._

The battle begins.

____

They’re out of sync.

It’s been ten years, they’re down one man, and they’re out of sync.

Noctis warps behind an MT, banking on the element of surprise. A shot rings through the air, and he doesn’t think to duck.

(Prompto)

It isn’t.

Gladio shouts a warning and moves in with his shield. He’s less than a second too late. Noctis cries out in pain, and that’s enough of an opening for a second shot to be levelled.

He dodges just in time, kicks into a flip. Metal against metal and he airsteps for a second hit, then a third.

"Ignis, you’re up!" 

Ignis misses the beat. It goes unnoticed, because Noctis is swarmed. He’s striking out blindly, switching weapons at will.

MTs are weak against… daggers? He doesn’t remember, and Ignis is too far away to properly ask.

He ducks and twirls, barely escaping an assassin unit’s rapid attacks. He grunts as the shock of fear hits his gut. Those ones - they’re quick and they’re deadly. He yells for Gladio, receives no response. Gladio is engaging a different hoard of MTs. He’s no longer used to fighting with others. It shows. 

Noctis is on his own, until he’s not.

He’s taking a shot at an MT when it happens, has just landed a strike from the back. There’s a hiss and a crackle, and he knows he’s hit home.

There’s a gun in his hand. On instinct he tosses his sword.

There’s no slap to the rear, no gangly limbs. It doesn’t matter, it’s _him_ , and they’re fighting in sync. Laughter bubbles up from Noct’s throat. He opens his mouth, lips forming the shape of a jest.

"Noct! Behind you!" Ignis yells.

He spins around. Red glowing eyes, gait familiar, green face.

It’s holding the engine blade. Poised to strike.

_Target: Noctis Lucis Caelum. Age 30. 68 inches, 148 pounds. Black hair, grey-blue eyes._

Noctis raises the gun, pulls back the hammer, and fires.

____

The unit twitches erratically.

_System failure. Attempting fix._

Steam billows from between panels of armor.

_Damage to hardware identified as permanent._

Jolts of electricity sear metal plates.

_Self-Destruct Sequence Initiated._

A countdown begins, measured in beeps.

_Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six._

Speed picking up.

_Five. Four. Three._

A clawed hand flips a latch, reaches in.

_Two._

The ripping of cables. A Magitek core. Somewhere inside there’s a name.

_One._

The core hits the ground when the unit combusts, bounces three times and rolls. It’s intact. It glows red with remorse.

The fight rages on. it’s fast and it’s brutal and bloody. Steel hits the ground; red eyes fade to black. The rest of (his) comrades have fallen.

Three men can be seen through the smoke. They’re alive, chests heaving, lungs gulping air. One of them kneels, takes the shell of a hand. The other two stand by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Thanks for sticking around for my weird little (almost) darkfic. The feedback, comments, kudos, and just general all-around love I’ve received from you all has been amazing. Hopefully this last chapter does the story justice. 
> 
> [Here, have some meta on Prompto!](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/post/172050999506/meta-one-tin-soldier)
> 
> I love nerding out about MT!Prompto. You should [come find me on Tumblr](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/) if you do too! I also post updates on all my fics over there, and of course you can subscribe to me here on Ao3.


End file.
